"Self-defense," Rob said. "She has a very good case for self-defense."
"Aunt Phoebe," I said, "exactly what happened when you went up to Resnick's house?"
"Why, what does he say happened?" she asked.
"Just tell us."
Aunt Phoebe thought for a moment.
"All right," she said. "I walked up and knocked on his door a couple of times, and nobody answered. I was about to leave when he came charging around the corner of the house, waving his gun. Wasn't aiming it at me, but the way he was waving it around, who knows what could have happened. So I grabbed it, and we played tug-of-war for a bit, until he lost his grip. He tried to twist my arm to make me give it back, so I whacked him sharply on the noggin, and he let go, and I ejected all the shells and threw the thing off the cliff. After that, he yelled for a while, and I yelled back, and then he stomped back into his house and tried to slam the door."
She shrugged and bit into a large ham and cheese sandwich.
"And that was the last you saw of him?" I asked.
She nodded as she chewed and swallowed, then chuckled.
"Fool hadn't put up a single board or a scrap of tape, as far as I could see when I was up there. Wonder if he's still up there trying to ride the storm out in that fishbowl."
"No," I said. "Actually, he's down in the meat locker of the Anchor Inn."
Aunt Phoebe stopped chewing.
"What's he doing there?" she asked through a mouthful of sandwich.
"Waiting to be autopsied," I said. "Michael and I found him floating facedown in a tidal pool earlier today."
Aunt Phoebe swallowed hard and then coughed a few times.
"Are you saying he's dead?" she asked when she could finally speak.
"That's generally a prerequisite for autopsying someone."
"Good Lord! You think that rap on the head killed him?"
"We won't know what killed him until the autopsy," I said.
"He was fine when I left him," Aunt Phoebe said. "Just as loud and obnoxious as ever."
"Maybe he had a delayed reaction," I said. "Or maybe you had nothing to do with it. Was he bleeding very badly when you left him?"
"Didn't see that he was bleeding at all," she said. "I didn't smash his skull in, just rapped him sharplike to let him know I wasn't going to stand for him trying to lay hands on me."
"Rapped him with what?" Michael said.
"My walking stick, of course."
"Well, they can examine the walking stick and compare that to the wound," Michael said. "Maybe someone else hit him later. It's not as if the guy didn't have other enemies."
"If I still had the stick," Aunt Phoebe said. "I told you--I lost it."
"In the gully?" I asked. "We could go look for it in the gully."
"No, somewhere between Resnick's house and the gully," she said.
"That only covers half the island," I said. "I don't suppose you could widen the search area a little?"
"I wasn't thinking about my stick," she said. "I was hopping mad, and I took the long way around to blow off steam. I know I'd lost my stick by the time I got to the gully, because I remember thinking I wouldn't have fallen in if I'd had it. Careless damn fool thing to do."
Or incredibly clever, if the walking stick was the murder weapon. She had only to toss it off the cliff and no one would ever see it again. Except that I couldn't quite picture Aunt Phoebe as a murderer.
We were all silent for a few minutes.
"There's no way they could prove first-degree murder," Rob said, finally.
"Not now, Rob," I said.
"I mean, manslaughter's probably the most they could even hope to--"
"Shut up, Rob!"
"You didn't see James on your way home, did you?" Mother asked.
"Haven't seen him since he took off for Green Point to watch the hurricane hit the island," Aunt Phoebe said. "Have you looked there?"
"Yes, that's how we came to find Resnick's body," I said.
"I'm sure something has happened to him," Mother said.
"He'll be fine, Mother," I said. "He'll turn up in the morning, full of enthusiasm about what an exciting adventure he's had."
I tried to sound as if I really believed it. I wasn't sure I'd fooled anyone. Probably not, since Michael chose that moment to take my hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Aunt Phoebe had fallen very silent, and, worse yet, she'd stopped eating. Definitely a bad sign.
"Well, I'd better get myself off to bed," Aunt Phoebe said, startling us by thumping the floor with her makeshift walking stick--a flagpole we'd dragged in from the porch--as she struggled to her feet. "I want to look my best when I turn myself in tomorrow."